“Sonnet XVII
I do not love you as if you were
salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the
fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things
are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow
and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never
but carries in itself the light of
hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain
solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly
in my body.
I love you without knowing how,
or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly,
without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no
other way than this:
where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my
chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I
fall asleep. ”

Pablo Neruda


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